


Captain's Crusade

by WhatWouldEnderDo



Category: J.M. Barrie - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWouldEnderDo/pseuds/WhatWouldEnderDo





	Captain's Crusade

The boy broke from the undergrowth, tearing out into the meadow with feet churning at a hummingbird beat. There was blood on his face—blood shining black in the light from the hunter’s moon, blood mixing with the sweat that poured down his forehead and into his wide, frightened eyes. But he did not blink—did not dare to blink—his gaze leaping and darting from shadow to shadow as he bounded across the meadow so fast he almost flew.

A chuckle of laughter followed him, seeming to come from just behind his shoulder, echoing deliriously across the clearing. “Ro-ooobbb,” the dread voice called, high and mirthful and not the least bit out of breath. “Oh, _Roo-oooobbbbbb! Olly olly oxen free!”_

Heart pounding, the boy ducked—darted—vanished into the shadows on the edges of the forest and immediately changed direction, thundering down the hillside ‘neath the tangled oaks, in the deep blackness where none had ever bothered to clear a path. Half skidding, half sliding, half dropping, and all but falling, he raced down the slope faster than a woodland hare, feeling his way by luck and by magic. The hill would lead to the river, and the river to the rapids, and the rapids to the mermaid’s cove, and then—

_Them’s what’ll eatcha, Robb. Best not come down here without me—I’m the only one they shine on, these days._

Along the edge of the cliffs, then, at the foot of the rapids, and down the goatspath to the black glass beach.

_But the moonlight—_

He would be out in the open, then, out in the open and defenseless—

Again he saw it in his mind’s eye, heard the mix of screams and laughter, the bright blade gleaming, the black blood streaming, the sick, animal gurgle. That’d been Stan, it had been, fox-sly Stanley, and Chips in ropes behind him, and worse, it’d been Beetle and Sherlock _holding_  those ropes—

Fly. He needed to fly, but he had hardly any magic left, and not one bright thing in his heart, and besides, they’d be faster than him in the air, anyway, they always had been.

“Oh, Roo-oooobbbbbb!”

_WHAM._

It happened in the smallest of moments, his head turned just a smidge as the laughter sounded faint behind him—a low tree branch, almost invisible in the shadowy darkness, and it caught him on the head so hard it turned him all the way upside down before he touched ground again, smashing and rolling and tumbling down the hill, leaving skin and blood and shredded cloth behind.

He didn’t black out— _couldn’t_ black out, there was no slack for fainting, no time for lying down, they were _coming_ and he had enough of a spark still in him to get back on his feet. But there was nowhere to go, he was at the bottom of the hill but he was turned around, dizzy, and there was something wrong with his eye—

“Down this way—”

“Junior birdman—”

“Geronimo!”

He shook his head, and a sick thick wetness splattered across his cheeks, his nose, hot slime turning slow cold in the night chill. But his head cleared, and he thought he saw a trail, a line of bright silver through the pewter-shine grass. Behind him, there were whoops and warcalls, the crash of careless footsteps, not half so fast as his own desperate flight but fast _enough._

He ran.

He ran, his legs on fire, chest heaving like to burst, longer and faster than ever he’d run before, like a hundred games of tag all rolled up into one. The line of silver shimmered like it wasn’t half there, and soon enough he cottoned he could only see it out of one eye, and not the eye he saw everything _else_ with, neither, but the one he’d gone and poked, it was blind and hurt and throbbing but it saw the silver anyway.

Magic, maybe—it might have been the last of his magic, leaking out of him, but there was nothing to do about _that_ , all he could do was run, run and hope as the rest of them emerged from the forest and raised a screaming clamor. He looked back, and with his silver sight he saw that there was six of ‘em, six where there should’ve been eleven, or ten minus himself, they’d gotten Sly and Chips but maybe Flint and The General had got away—

_Or maybe they were part of it, maybe they’re with ‘em and they’re up in the sky, swooping down—_

He spared an upward glance, but there was nothing save the moon and million stars—at least, nothing either eye could see.

And then he was there, at cliff’s edge, and as he skidded to a stop by the old Giant’s Skull, the silver line ended. Not faded, nor vanished, just _ended_ , right there where the grass gave way to sky, the line had guided him this far but it wouldn’t take him further.

He turned, and he could see them, see them with _both_ eyes now, they were close enough that their hair gleamed bright in the moonlight, but they were brighter still in his silver sight, their eyes and teeth lit up like torches, and he shuddered to see that there was shining silver spilling down their fronts and spattered across their clothes, it was _blood_ magic he was seeing so clear, the life of Sly and Chips all divvied up and shared out, lighting them up bright, he weren't sure why he thought it but somehow it made him think of Peter, made them look _like_ Peter.

And with that the last of his hope died, because he knew he’d _never_ outrun them now—not half-dead and trampled and with no magic left at all. He felt it, the sinking in his heart, as the silver aura dimmed and faded and he was left with just halfsight, only one eye straining to see in the moonlight as his death drew ever closer and the laughter echoed from the sky above.

And then—

Maybe it was some small spark of magic anyway, one final, solitary speck of fairy dust.

Or maybe it was the whisper of a ghost, Sly or Chips or Old Man Coventry.

Or maybe it was the moon, looming so big and bright above him.

It might’ve even been his own brain, his very own heart and mind, a flash of genius at the last, most desperate moment.

But whatever it was, he saw in an instant his only chance, not to escape but to _make them stop chasing—_

Spinning, he kicked at the rock that the Giant’s Skull was leaning on, and when it didn’t move he kicked at the rocks _that_ rock was held by, and as the laughter grew louder he flung himself down, tore at the grass and the dirt holding _those_ rocks in place until suddenly there was a shift, a crackle, a threatening, lumbering moan, and he rolled to the side as the whole thing collapsed, as it tipped and toppled and the Giant’s Skull yawned out into the open air—

They stopped, all six of them, stopped right on the edge with a seventh swooping down from the sky, even as Robb took off in the other direction, cutting down the goatspath like the hounds of Hell were after him.

But they _weren’t_ after him, not anymore. They didn’t follow—were frozen in awe and wonder as the Giant’s Skull tumbled down, smashing and crashing and cracking and breaking, all sparks of flint and lightning as it glanced off the rock face, all thunder and dust and marvelous noise, a real live avalanche down the cliff and then _splash!_ —into the sea, and the impact drove the waters back for a magnificent moment, revealing all manner of crabs and jellies and sea stars glistening in the moonlight before the waves came surging back, and then of course the mermaids surfaced, furious and frightened, waving their spears as they circled the shattered boulder like it was an enemy stronghold—

All of this and more they watched—fixated, fascinated, Peter no less than the rest of them, Robb completely forgotten in the novelty of this new game—without a word they spread out along the cliff, looking for other rocks they might dislodge, wondering to themselves what it might look like inside a mermaid’s skull, and whether it were any different from what they’d found inside the other boys—

Robb ran on into the night.

 

*          *          *

 

He knew, because Peter had told him—they _all_ knew, thanks to Peter—that you never ever ever _ever_ made a bargain with the Indians. 

 _They take what they want,_ he’d said, _and they don’t give fair back, no sir. They’s liars and cheaters and we’re at war with them anyhow._

But it was the one place Robb reckoned Peter wouldn’t go, they’d gone on raids in Piccaninny territory but they’d never dared trespass into the _heart_ of the tribal lands, to where the chief and the shaman and the hunters and the music-man all lived in their goatskin teepees, dancing around the emerald fire, Peter was _scared_ of them Indians—though Robb didn't properly know why—had stayed clear out of bowshot when they'd flown over last summer.

And so that was where Rob had run to, faster even than fear and sense, so fast that before he could think twice he was _there_ , dropping down in a heap in front of Great Big Little Panther himself.  It might be death but it couldn't be worse than what had happened to poor Sly, poor Sly and poor Chips and maybe half the others too.

There had been gasps, and a stirring, and a grabbing of weapons, but the chief had held them back.

There had been words, words that Robb didn’t understand, a question in the savage tongue, and he could barely choke out a guess at an answer, his throat afire and his breath as dry as desert wind.

“Escaped,” he whispered.

There was silence, and then the shaman spoke, translating the word. After that there was a good deal of muttering around the fire, and even in his fugue Robb could tell that this was news—that something _new_ had happened, and that even the shaman was surprised.

Then there was warmth, and a fire-soaked blanket wrapped around him, and arms as dark as chocolate bars and as thick and strong as oak tree branches, and the flap of a teepee doorway, and then darkness, with not even the light of the moon or the stars except in the tiny, tiny circle at the very peak of the teepee’s top.

Robb slept.

 

*          *          *

 

“Do you see?” the shaman asked.

Robb said nothing, only stepped softly forward, his mouth hanging open.

“It is the same to the north,” the shaman said. “The same to the north, and to the south, and to the east.”

They stood atop a hill, the tallest hill for miles around, and they looked to the west, all the way to the farthest western corner of the world, where just above the horizon—

Dragonslair. The fire island, home of invincible monsters and unimaginable treasure, with its tower of smoke that stretched up to caress the stars—

The stars of the _eastern_ sea.

The island was backwards, its silhouette reversed, as if somehow Robb was seeing it from _behind,_ from further east than ever they’d flown, east and east and then looking back—

“They told you, yes? That the world is round?”

Robb nodded silently. Of course he knew the world was round, _everybody_ knew the world was round, he just never thought—

Never thought—

“Go north, and you come south. Go east, and you come west. All the world is but ten days’ walk, in the places where you can walk, and five days’ sailing if you go with the wind.”

But—

“When he wants it to grow, it grows,” said the shaman. “Was a time, once, was only _five_ days’ walk, and no sea at all, and you could get to the Piccaninny from both sides. But he dreamt of a dragon and an adventure ‘cross the sea, and there it was, until he killed it.”

“Peter—”

Robb tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat so he had to cough and start over. “Peter always said, whatever we could imagine—”

“Aye,” said the shaman. “But he lied. ‘Tis whatever _he_ can imagine comes true, and only sometimes does it suit him for _your_ dreams to be real.”

And that was why the knife Robb had summoned had failed to appear. Why the firebolts he’d thrown had sputtered and died, and the earthquake he’d called never come.

“He is the heart of this world,” said the shaman. “Old as the dragon bones, but young as the new day’s light. He is ancient, and eldritch, and free.”

Robb looked back at the shaman, at the creases and wrinkles that covered his face, the dark tattoos faded to grey with the passing of decades.

“Is he human?” Robb asked.

“He _dreams_ himself human,” the shaman answered.  "Forever innocent, forever young.  A boy eternal."

“Are _you_ human?” Robb asked.

“He dreams me human, and so human I am. But only some.” Reaching down, the shaman pulled aside his loincloth, revealing—

Nothing.

Robb flinched, uncomfortable, the blood rushing to his face.  And then, the thought, almost too terrible to contemplate—

“Am—” he began, faltering. “Am _I_ human?”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence.

“The others—the Lost Boys—”

“Real boys you are, and lost for true. He takes you, in the night, brings you here for his revelry. And when he bores of you, or when you get to be too many—”

Robb swallowed. The tribe had held a funeral for Sly Stanley and little Chips, a great and rattling ceremony with fire and shrieking and the burning of effigies. They’d brought the ashes with them to the hilltop, had scattered them out under the skystretch trees.

“How many?” Robb whispered.

“Too many,” the shaman replied. “Ten thousand years and more. Some he keeps for a week. Some he keeps for a year. One, he danced with naked on the high plain for two hundred years. But in the end, the laughter always turns cruel, and there are none of you so strong as he, to live through _that_ game.”

Ten thousand years. Robb couldn’t even imagine it. He was _seven_ —or had been, at least, when Peter had first come for him.

_Second star from the right, and then straight on 'til morning.  Hent you ever wanted to fly, Robb Harwood?_

“How old am I?” he asked.

“Seven,” the shaman answered. “But seven years have you been seven—seven years since we first marked your arrival in this land.”

He pointed up at the sky, at the scattering of stars that were always, always visible, though in the day they barely seemed to shine at all. “That one,” the shaman said. “That was the light that kindled on the night he anointed you with the magic of the fey.”

Robb looked at the star, at _all_ of the stars, they could hardly be seen against the midday summer blue but still you could tell that there were hundreds of them, thousands.  Millions, maybe.

“Which one was Sly’s?” he asked.

The shaman pointed.

“How do I kill him?”

The shaman laughed, a grim and joyless sound. “You can’t, Robb Harwood. Do you not understand? He is God here. This is _his_ kingdom, sustained by his dream. Even if you _could_ kill him—what then, of the ground you stand on? The air you breathe? You would pop the bubble that is the whole world.”

Robb was silent for a long, long moment. And then, finally—

“How do I save them? The others? Flint and Froggie and Sherlock and The General?”

The shaman laughed again, and this time it was real, real laughter with real life inside it, a living, beating heart. “Them what tried to kill you?” he asked, his eyes locked tight on the small boy’s face.

Robb chewed at his lip. “They didn’t know,” he said. “Right? Didn't mean it. They was—they was just listening to Peter.”

“Peter didn’t know, either.”

“But I can’t _save_ Peter,” Robb said, a crack appearing in his voice. “C—can I? Can he—is he even—”

“No.”

“But the others. They can?”

“Yes.”

“I can save them?”

“Perhaps.”

“How?”

The shaman shrugged. “I don’t know, Robb Harwood. I was not made to grow. I was not made to learn. I was made with all the learning I would ever have, and know only what I always knew.”

“But you know _this?”_

“No,” he said flatly. And then, seeing the look on Robb’s face—“But I know that you are _different,_ Robb Harwood. You are _new._ In all the years, in all the centuries, there has never been a game like this one. You will have the power to change this world. You must, since you already have.”

Robb looked down at his hands. “I ent got no more magic, though,” he said. “I spent it all up, and there's no way I can get anymore fairy dust. And now I’m half blind, too. How’m I going to even stay alive, if Peter decides he wants me dead?”

“You won’t,” said the shaman. “Which is why you must make sure he does _not_ want you dead. You must be a new game for him, Robb Harwood. You must stoke his interest, tickle his fancy, keep the story alive.”

“How do I do _that?”_

“I don’t know. But I do know this—for my own magic tells me so—you will need both of your eyes.”

There was a rustling in the bushes, and Robb jerked back as he saw a giant crocodile emerge—emerge, and walk to the shaman’s side, and then fold down softly onto its belly, its cold eyes fixed on the small boy’s form.

“What—”

“Both eyes you need, to see this world, Robb Harwood. To see the new way forward."

"But—after I got poked—I saw—I could see  _more,_ I could see  _him_ —"

"That was  _his_ magic.  You called on it, through the dust he bestowed upon you, and it answered.  And he let it, so that the game would last, thinking you tied upon a string—did not choke it off as he did when you called for a knife to defend yourself.  But you have no more dust in you, Robb Harwood.  Magic shall no longer be your servant.  And for the giving of an eye, there must be quite a price."

Robb felt his dread rise at the last, a tightness in his chest that reached all the way to his throat.  "What—"

“Left foot, right foot, left hand, right. Heart, too, but I do not think you want to be trading your heart for an eye.” Once more the grim and empty laughter.

" _All_ of that?"

"No.  One.  It is a choice."

Robb blinked, and stared, and thought—thought and thought and thought.

_Sly would’ve known what to do._

“You’re saying—”

He broke off, and swallowed tight. “You’re saying,” he continued, “that you can give me my eye back?”

“Aye, Robb Harwood.”

“And that if I take my eye back, I have a chance?”

“Aye.”

“What—if I _don’t_ take my eye back, do I have a chance _then?”_

“No.”

"How d'you know?"

"I was made to know."

Robb swallowed again. The crocodile’s jaws had eased open, ever so slightly, and the teeth flashed in the sunlight, gleaming like the knife that Peter had held, the knife of white bone—

“And it—it—I have to—to—to give up—”

“Always a cost, with magic, Robb Harwood. Before, you spent your wisdom, your knowledge, the love of your family—poured out your future into games and tricks and flying, childish things, imagination. But now you are awake. Now you are _alive_. Now you cannot make the magic of children any longer, and grown-up power calls for grown-up sacrifice.”

Robb sucked in a breath, and looked back out at the island in the distance—the glowing peak, the towering smoke. “Can—” he began. “Can I get _more_ than just an eye?” he asked.  "If—if I'm giving up my hand?"

Again the laughter, heavy and dark. “Perhaps,” the shaman said. “For your left, perhaps.  What ask you, Robb Harwood?”

The boy looked down again.  His left hand—that was the _good_ one, the one he'd learned to write with, the one he always threw with.

_If it’s to be a game—a new adventure—_

He looked up at the star-speckled sky, at the spark of light that was poor Stanley's only monument, then out across the water to the dark, distant island.

 _I can save 'em.  At least some of 'em.  If I can get 'em away, away from_ him _, to someplace far, someplace safe—_  

“A ship,” Robb whispered, and together they smiled—the shaman and the crocodile both.


End file.
